


Missing pieces, Empty roads

by Death_inspiresme



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, Denial of Feelings, Don't Like Don't Read, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Underage, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Older Man/Younger Man, Precious Peter Parker, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 12:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_inspiresme/pseuds/Death_inspiresme
Summary: Peter Parker doesn't really know life outside of the little town he lives in. It's okay though, because he has his mom, and sometimes his stepdad. They're always telling him about the bad neighbourhood, and how one day all three of them will move far away from here, somewhere better. Peter just turned twelve, and his mom is dead._________________Tony Stark is yet another broken man with a long and troubled past, and a stone cold heart to match. It's better this way, having no one to care about; travelling miles alone with empty beer bottles on the passenger seat. And then one day he meets a little boy on the road-- who just may change his life forever.**This work has been discontinued, my apologies!**





	Missing pieces, Empty roads

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of a prologue than the first chapter, just a short snippet of the introduction. I'm going to be very clear here; Peter will be twelve in this story, and Tony will be around thirty. Nothing happens between them until wayyyy further into the story, but this is just a warning for all.

This fanfic is based off an au I posted on my tumblr, which you can find [here](https://im-a-goner--foryou.tumblr.com/post/173886042818/non-powered-au-where-young-peter-grows-up-in-a-bad).

* * *

 

 

   The first step into his house already doesn't feel right, somehow. The air inside is thick, heavy, weighing down his shoulders, the doorknob under his palm turning cold. He stamps down the rising irrational fear and apprehension, careful to shut the door behind him.

 

   "Mommy?" Peter calls out, voice trembly because something is undeniably wrong. His mom always tells him it's like he's got a sixth sense, that he knows what's going to happen before anyone else and it's a good thing, but he doesn't think it is. What good is it, if Peter couldn't stop the bad things from happening anyways? Before he can stop himself his feet are moving at their own accord, towards the kitchen; a strong sense of doom seemingly drawing him closer. It's becoming harder to breathe in the hot stifled air-- the floorboards creak under his scruffed sneakers.

 

   When he rounds the corner, and sees everything, the breath is knocked out of him. Someone is screaming, and Peter thinks it's him, and he's torn between running far away back to the shaded comfort of his creek, and stepping closer to his mom's limp body. He can smell the stench of blood in the air now, coppery like dirty pennies. His knees must have buckled at some point, as he kneels on the floor, fingers shaking so hard he feels the tremors up his arm. All that's in his ears is the silent ringing of his wails.

 

   Long strips of hair splay over her face, shielding it from Peter, and he doesn't know if he's grateful for it; _no_ , all he can focus on is the gaping awful thing right in her chest, crimson-dark blood spilling from the gunshot wound. Someone shot her.

 

  
   Peter scrambles up to his feet so fast he nearly loses his balance, and god his mom's dead body is right there in front of him, so real; and for a second he wants to touch her pale bone-white skin, because then maybe she'll disappear and it'll all just turn out to be a nightmare, and his real mom would be there to press a kiss to his forehead and hum him to sleep. But this can't be a dream, because Peter has never felt such profound terror before, not even while awake.

 

   His intuition doesn't fail him now. Gasping, through the hot blurry mess of tears Peter stumbles to his room, grabbing his haversack from the closet. He blindly shoves in some clothes; a tattered hoodie, his jeans-- pausing to dry-heave over his bed, Peter wipes the mess away from his face with a shirtsleeve. He has to be brave. That's what his mom always told him. There's only room for essentials, but Peter doesn't own much anyway. The last thing he takes is his teddy with its brown button eyes and thread-stitched smile, reminding him of quiet nights and falling asleep to his mother's fingers carding ever so gently through his hair.

 

   Peter leaves the only home he ever knew without looking back.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the writing's okay so far! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated!! :)


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